The Body As An Object (The Mind As A Soul)
There's an artwork by Cerith Wyn Evans that reads:-
The people you love become ghosts inside of you and like this you keep them alive
It is such a beautiful artwork, as most of Wyn Evans' work is. There is a balance between light and dark that reminds me so much of my life. My inability to remain focused on the present has changed my life, and although I don't know how the situation will resolve I'm hoping that no one ends up hurt.
I said a long time ago, that my recovery from BPD was not so much a recovery but a learn-how-to-live exercise. Having never functioned particularly well as an adult there was no pre-illness self to recover. I had to create an identity that was sustainable, with coping mechanisms that didn't damage myself or anyone else; and so, that is what I've attempted to do.
I am so very unlike the previous iterations of me. If you put sixteen-year-old me in a room with me, I'd have no idea what to say to her. I am indebted to the people that have stayed with me for those ten years, they are few and far between.
This clarity has led me to re-examine my past in a way that is difficult. My intrusive thoughts are no longer about putting my hand in deep-fat-fryers or caving my head in with a hammer, now they are about situations that I was once in, that may or may not have resolved themselves. I'm unsure which thoughts are more distressing. I am angry at my previous selves, for her reactions, her beliefs and behaviours. No-one reprimands me like myself.
In trying to level her and myself, I'm attempting to become at home with myself. After a shower to cleanse the hangover I took a video of my body, the scars, the bruises. It's still there, on my phone, unwatched. I'm unsure what, if anything I will do with it, but there is an honesty in it being there.
The female body has a long, entrenched objectification of it, and I am interested in turning my penetrating and often judgemental gaze not on my mind, but my body. I am interested in how women often are horrendously judgemental of other women. I am interested in how our bodies show the evidence of the lives we've lived, and I'm not just talking about my own self harm. If, by some cruel twist of fate, my body was found they would be able to identify me by not just the visible marks of living, but also that time I broke the knuckle on my left littlest finger, and the time I broke my wrist, and my shoulder. I break as physically easily as mentally it would seem.
On Sunday one of my eldest and bestest friends came to be hungover with me. We created a blanket fort on my sofa, watched Big Hero Six (seriously the.best.film.ever) and ate away the sickness. We talked about situations and we laughed. I told him I was grateful to him for sticking with me these past ten years. If anyone has reason to hate me, he does, and he doesn't and that amazes me. I'll never stop thanking him for his forgiveness.
He fell asleep against my bent knees and as he snored I thought to myself about all the men that I've watched sleep. That so many of them have snored (it would appear that if I have a type of man to bestow me affections on, it would be those that snore). I thought about all the people that I have loved and how, they too are alive inside me. That I need to find a way to let the ghosts go.